


Judging the Mark

by greenjudy



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Beer, M/M, Rude is astute, Rude's living room, injuries (non-graphic), unsayable words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7144163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/pseuds/greenjudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tseng’s different. Smart. He trusts us—he trusts you. And the reason he trusts you,” Rude holds the bottle to his lips, drinks, “is because you trust him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judging the Mark

“Wait. I wanna see that again,” Reno says.

It’s 1 AM. Rude and Reno are three hours off a twenty-hour shift, too tired to function and too keyed up to sleep. They’ve slotted Reno’s favorite movie in Rude’s antique DVD player. Rain’s pelting the windows and all the bars are burning on Rude’s electric heater. 

Rude’s in the overstuffed armchair rocker. He’s stripped down to his wifebeater and his boxer briefs, but he is too tired to unlace his boots. 

Reno is splayed on the couch in his shirt and his shorts; his stocking feet, none too clean, are pointed at Rude. Rude has the remote. 

“Just watch,” Rude says. “You know this scene. Sit still and watch the damn movie.”

“He never uses a stuntman,” Reno says. “I still can’t figure out how…go back.”

Rude silently shakes his head, back and forth. “Sit still,” he mouths. 

Reno stretches.

“I could not make popcorn,” he observes. 

Rude sighs heavily and points the remote at the screen. 

“Go back to where he comes off the side of the building, I wanna see the kick, where’s his balance point—“ 

At this, Rude hits pause. 

“Popcorn first,” he says. 

Reno slides off Rude’s ancient couch. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. Learn nothing.”

“Put the stuff on it.”

During this hiatus, while Reno makes popcorn in a covered pan, Rude checks his phone. 

“Message from Tseng,” he calls into the kitchen.

“Yeah?” 

“Matcek surveillance is still 100% intel-free.”

“No surprises there.” 

“He wants to know, based on your judgment of the mark, should he order a pizza for the guys or send them home.” 

Reno shakes garlic salt on the popcorn and tosses it in the pan. 

“Send them home,” he says finally. “Something made Matcek twig. I’ll look at the feeds tomorrow, see what I can see.”

“Based on your judgment of the mark,” Rude repeats thoughtfully, typing. “He doesn’t call you directly, and he wants to know what to do, based on your judgment,” he hits return, “of the mark.”

Reno’s brought two bottles of beer out of Rude’s fridge. The popcorn’s still in the pan. He decants it into a metal bowl.

“You make it sound like a crime.” 

“More like a mystery,” Rude says, “the mystery of Tseng not texting you.” 

“He hasn’t talked to me directly in, I don’t know, few weeks now?” 

“Why the fuck not? I’m not your errand boy, man. Sick of carrying notes back and forth like we’re in middle school. You guys have a lovers’ quarrel or something?”

Reno’s laugh is nearly silent, a fox’s laughter. He plunks bottles and bowl on the coffee table. 

“I just assumed he was busy.”

“You’re his second-in-command,” Rude says. “He shouldn’t be too busy for you.”

“You’d be a good second,” Reno muses, and swigs his beer. “C’mon, start it. I love this part—the rain, the chess game, the old guy playing music while they fight—“

“No,” Rude says shortly. “I wouldn’t.” 

Reno’s eyes open wide and he turns to look at his partner.

“I don’t trust him like you do,” Rude says.

“That might be a plus, our line of work. Can’t always trust the boss.” 

“When the boss is Scarlet, or motherfucking Heidegger, that’s true. They’d frost us in a second. Scarlet’d do it for fun. Motherfucking Heidegger’d do it because he’s too stupid not to frost his men. Tseng’s different. Smart. He trusts us—he trusts you. And the reason he trusts you,” Rude holds the bottle to his lips, drinks, “is because you trust him.” 

“I,” Reno says, and halts.

“You see in his head,” Rude says. “I can’t make him out. All I got is evidence of him consistently not shafting us. I got evidence that he has a sense of decency. I elect to work for him because he’s given me reason to believe that whatever his crazy is, it’s not gonna repeat on us.”

“That sounds like grounds for trust, to me.”

“Not what I’m talking about. I trust him not to get my ass killed in the field. You trust his whole—and you’re part of it, you know that? You,” Rude jabs a finger, “are how he sees around corners.” He shakes his head, munches popcorn, drinks. “Don’t know how you stand it, man. Being his spare brain. Not sure it’s healthy. Definitely gets results. Glad it isn’t me.”

Reno’s rubbing his hand across his face; he looks a little dazed.

“It’s not, it’s just,” he says.

Rude, hunched in the armchair, shakes his head. He’s thought this through. 

“I get it: it’s easy for you, you’re on his frequency,” Rude says. “You’re like his sixth sense, because you let him do that, let him use you like that.” 

“Use me,” Reno says, “no.” He rolls his shoulders, frowns, puzzled. “Don’t you—come on—you and me, we—“

“Sure,” Rude agrees. “But it isn’t the same. Shit, man, I’m an open fucking book compared with Tseng. My needs are simple: do not die, do not kill me, do not put anchovies in the spaghetti sauce.” Rude cracks his neck. “What I’m saying is that it’s normal partners. You and Tseng are not normal partners.”

Reno’s staring at the bubbles on the surface of his beer. He tilts the bottle and watches them slide over the glass. 

“Doesn’t bother me,” he says finally. 

“Then you better call him,” Rude says, “and tell him to stop not texting you.”

Reno drinks and thinks of several things he could say at that moment. 

That he knows why Tseng hasn’t made contact. 

That he saw Tseng’s face when he got him out of the chopper. That all the time, with the wrecked metal groaning around them, Tseng’s hands locked around his forearms, Reno felt those eyes on him as he pulled him out of the crushed fuselage and onto the grassy verge.

“Should have left me,” Tseng had gasped, when they’d finally pulled clear. 

“Shut up,” Reno had said, and they’d dragged each other off the side of the road, away from the burning convoy. 

That’s where they’d stayed most of that night, that’s where Reno relocated his own shoulder and fed Tseng potions to stave off shock and cardiac arrest, and that’s where the SOLDIERS from Operation Stonefoot found them the next morning; Reno was still whispering words to keep Tseng awake as Medical stretchered them both and stuck an IV drip in Tseng’s arm. 

He could tell Rude that when they’d tried to sedate him, Tseng had started shouting his name. “No, don’t leave him,” he’d cried, and Reno’d reached out across the intervening space for his hand, and he’d felt it arcing between them like an electric shock in the touch. 

“Don’t let go,” Tseng had said, as the drugs hit his system. 

There’s nothing, Reno thinks, either of them can do about that. 

“Whatever,” he tells Rude. “It’s cool. He’ll call when it’s the right time to call.”

When he’s ready, Reno thinks. 

He scoops a handful of popcorn into his mouth. 

“Go back to the scene,” he tells Rude with his mouth full. “Where he comes off the wall.”

Rude watches him narrowly over his bottle.

“You guys are maniacs,” he says.


End file.
